The Candle in His Hand
by rachg82
Summary: Set post "The Bikini in the Soup," this one involves Booth considering Brennan & role-playing. It started out as a PWP inspired by a conversation I had over at livejournal with fourth rose, and then turned all pensive. Blame my poetic heart.


**This is the third story I ever wrote & was inspired by a conversation I had with fourth_rose over at LiveJournal. **

_"Who will I be playing?"_

Sultry & flickering, the words creep low to the ground, bending with the wind.

They follow him home,  
>write messages on the bathroom mirror,<br>roll around in his bed.

He doesn't have time for this.

Calendars hung,  
>hopeful years<br>hanged,  
>one<br>after another;  
>the aging clock hides its face. A blinking red light-wake up, wake up.<br>Practicing performers are best left in private.

She has made a teenager out of him.

Pressed under the sheets,  
>lids closed<br>tight, wanting,  
>holy<br>to  
>the touch.<p>

His pictured hand on her skin;  
>five digits<br>counting  
>stretch marks up her thigh,<br>a kiss in worship for each one.

That's how she would be.

Soft & trembling;  
>distant words,<br>nails tracing  
>patterns.<br>A shadowy grin.

His.  
>Just his.<br>And he would be hers,  
>like roots first meeting the soil.<p>

(It's true. He knows it would be true.)

Lines in the sand, they mean nothing.  
>The ocean wants the shore;<br>it always has.  
>The wave has its own reason for being.<p>

Shells don't stand a chance.

Dark & sleek,  
>her wet voice<br>washing over him.

Again. Please.

(This is what I need)

One hand descends as the other slides in. A white flag waves above his head.

Their writing is on the wall.

_Like this. Like this_.

(Don't try to explain the miracle)

He remembers her sleeping breath against his neck;  
>the circus, a trailer, one bed.<br>His world suspended within two lips,  
>freckles he'd never seen before.<br>He couldn't stop staring.

She was still wearing her costume,  
>chest rising and<br>falling  
>beneath his darting<br>gaze.

_Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us_

They nearly made a child together once.  
>He remembers that, too.<br>Her body  
>extended.<br>Her eyes full of  
>promise.<br>All because of him.

He sat in that clinic, cup in hand,  
>wild with delusion,<br>nerves screaming,  
>face flaming,<br>and thought only of one thing.

Forever.

DNA means forever.

One name.  
>One life.<br>One request.

A man on a mission.

(Nothing happens unless first a dream)

He would do anything for her,  
>to protect her,<br>to please her,  
>to stay close<br>to her.

She is his north star,  
>and he has been lost his whole life.<p>

They are so far apart now.  
>It is his choice. He knows that.<br>When a wound is infected, one cleans it.  
>A cut needs time to heal.<p>

These are lessons learned in the trenches.

Booth feels diseased & dangerous.  
>He's set up a quarantine<br>with crossed fingers behind  
>his back.<p>

_Please don't go_.

Bones could tell him all about pathogens.  
>She understands and waits;<br>he will need a friend to guard the perimeter.

This is the way things are.  
>She requires no payment in return.<p>

Streets & sidewalks, strangers in the moonlight;  
>the night is judgmental.<br>It reminds him his bed is made for two.

Tossing & turning,  
>there is too much room<br>in this  
>room.<p>

Too much space  
>between<br>there and here.

Her bed & his. Today & tomorrow. What comes next.

He doesn't have any more answers.

Her face raises a question  
>with each and every look.<p>

The stars form ampersands across his ceiling.

_This is the proper punctuation_, they say,

for

1 & 2,  
>and<br>left & right,  
>and<br>east & west,  
>and<br>you & me.

_Brain & heart, Bones_

(walk back into my house)

Like this. Like this.

He still wants to learn,  
>always the eager student;<br>shoes shined,  
>books in one hand,<br>mischief in the other;  
>a green apple tossed to the teacher.<p>

Booth can see her before him now  
>in a cardigan sweater;<br>strict ruler in hand,  
>black-framed glasses,<br>trim & tidy skirt;  
>lectures rolling off her tongue<br>like freshly squeezed grapes.

Pay attention.

We have a lot to cover.

Be a good boy.

_Who will I be playing?_

There's no stopping now.  
>The shadows have grown long<br>and his pulse  
>is pounding.<p>

Roxie.

Wanda.

Bren.

_Who will I be?_

Just you, Bones. Just you.

It's all he really wants.

It's all he'll ever want.

Her thoughts.  
>Her fears.<br>Her touch.  
>Her glance.<br>Her words.  
>Her smile.<br>Her walk.  
>Her tears.<br>Her laughter.  
>Her desire.<br>Her love.

She is imperfectly perfect.

Her head would fit just right on his chest,  
>hair tickling in the morning;<br>her hips would  
>tuck back<br>into him, just  
>so,<br>and sway.

Slowly, surely.  
>A frenzy in the making,<br>no longer contained.

His lips would mouth her ear,  
>I love you.<br>I love you.  
>I love you.<p>

One palm mapping her hip,  
>two rogue fingers raiding her bellybutton,<br>he would discover her whole.

There are no ghosts here. They've been swept away by the tide.

They are the walking dead, come back to life. Spirits are not welcome.

He is still so afraid. It is not yet their time.

It is never his time. He is tired of waiting.

He waited as a child.  
>He waited as a young man.<br>He is old now  
>and in need<br>of rest.

There must be a place for him somewhere,  
>some part of him that's right.<p>

His heart is a traitor. It tells him to keep going; it tells him  
>she'll be there<br>searching,  
>calling<br>his name.

It's her name he's calling now.

Hoarse,  
>familiar,<br>sacred;  
>her face &amp; the rain;<br>his legs are shaking;  
>this ache is primal.<p>

Time reveals its face & gives a standing ovation.  
>The clock's red light blinks on<br>and on.  
><em>Don't forget<em>.

He won't.

It'll be his choice.  
>His &amp; hers,<br>together.

_Like this_.

**Fin**.

Citations:

-The title of this fic comes from the poem "Like This" by Rumi, along with three (obvious) quotes that were woven into the story itself.


End file.
